


surviving is the only war we can afford

by greatcatsbys



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Drug Use, M/M, a ~general malaise of unhappiness~ but no sad blowjobs. yet., i am a Serious Writer, ~vaguely modern~
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-31
Updated: 2013-08-31
Packaged: 2017-12-25 06:00:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/949473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greatcatsbys/pseuds/greatcatsbys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As with all things, Grantaire is left with a choice. Belief is more than a choice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	surviving is the only war we can afford

It’s Wednesday, late-morning, and the sound of a distant car alarm is what finally wakes Jehan up. The opposite side of the bed is empty, slightly rumpled covers the only betrayal of the knowledge that anybody else was ever there. They have fallen into a routine, unwittingly, and Jehan scowls at yet another facet of his life that can now be placed into a box.

Grantaire wakes up at eight-ish, without fail, and pads quietly through the apartment, pulls on yesterday’s jumper and jeans; returns at quarter past with an opened pack of cigarettes and a crate of cans to last the afternoon. By this time, Jehan is still in bed, but not asleep – instead, he envisages patterns in the pale white drywall, thinks of polysyllabic monstrosities that rhyme with nothing else. They do not share a shower – Grantaire rarely showers at all – and they discuss trivialities over breakfast, Grantaire simply observing as Jehan flicks through a newspaper, slams it down in annoyance. Kate Bush-or-other plays in the background plaintively. Jehan drums his slender fingers against the table, begins to braid his damp hair loosely.

It is not until ten-fifteen that Grantaire asks to go for a drive.

 

 

Jehan insists they drive to the country. _It’s hard for people like us to stay in one place_ , he insists, and Grantaire nods passively, allows Jehan to delve, heal, understand. Such resignation is a rare occurrence.

They end up in a deserted field slightly less than a hundred miles away, where the grass is wilting and yellowy and large stones that seem to have been rolled from nowhere offer a fortress from everything they are trying to outrun. Jehan runs towards it, willowy limbs clawing at it in excitement, climbing it instinctively; gestures to Grantaire, offers a hand, pulls him up to the heavens.

They carve their names into the rock like schoolchildren – _J loves R, forever_ – and smile contentedly, trace their fingers over each other’s fingers, over the stones in turn, enjoying the mark they have left on forever for others to find.

 _There’s something really appealing about immortality, isn’t there?_ Jehan muses, his head on Grantaire’s shoulder, and Grantaire nods, feels truly impenetrable as they sit, diplomatically-designated kings of the proverbial castle. From here, the view is exceptional, and the dappled sunlight through the trees illuminates the world in specks of white, makes even the dry grass look otherworldly.

Jehan lives for moments like these. They do not come frequently enough.

 

 

‘Darling!’ Grantaire tries as he sees Jehan, stumbling over the ‘l’, and missing the ‘g’ altogether. ‘We were discussing smutty puns, and like a ghostly apparition, you simply – _appeared!_ ’

Grantaire pulls at Jehan’s sleeve, wide-eyed, and raises a hand to his face, feeling for skin and breath and any indicator that the boy standing in front of him is no spectral figure after all. ‘And who do I know that loves a good smutty pun better than Jean – John – no, _Je-han_ Prouvaire?‘ Grantaire laughs again, leans forward to whisper conspiratorially in Jehan’s ear. ‘I’ve been drinking, you see – don’t tell - _gagnons, pèlerins sages, l'absinthe aux verts piliers –_ ‘

Jehan intercepts Grantaire as he threatens to top himself over in his enthusiasm, seizing him under the arm. Grantaire instantly drapes himself around the taller boy, and Jehan pulls him along, hindered by kisses to the cheek, lips, neck, his only moments of respite granted when Grantaire takes to humming tunelessly.

‘On a scale from one to ten, how –‘

Grantaire clears his throat, interrupting. They’ve had this conversation before. ‘To quote the poet Minaj, _‘higher than a motherfucker.’_ ’

‘Your repertoire is extensive, as always,’ Jehan says, stroking affectionate circles into Grantaire’s hair as he staggers, pulling Jehan’s neck this way and that. ‘Will one be reciting Homer for us whilst throwing up, again? Or was that strictly a performance for inside _our_ house?’

Grantaire smirks through split lips, raises his drowsy arms to accommodate for his new audience.

‘Be strong, saith my heart!’ he slurs grandly, taking two steps forward and another back. ‘I am a –‘

He pauses, a deep hiccough interrupting his oration, and Jehan laughs lightly in spite of himself, covers his eyes in mock embarrassment.

‘Give me strength,‘ he says, placing Grantaire delicately against the wall, free from the trajectory of any picture frames, and wanders to the kitchen. ‘Courfeyrac?’ he shouts, pointing down the hallway to where Grantaire is swaying. ‘I’ll have what he’s having.’

 

 

The screams of betrayal and loathing and _you told me this was supposed to matter_ begin in the shaky taxi ride home, Grantaire’s head hitting the seat furiously as he rages. Five minutes up the road, and the driver pulls over; commands them to get out, and Jehan glares, mutters _can’t you tell he’s sick?_ and shoves a fistful of notes through the slot in the window. Grantaire’s body is heavy and squirming, and Jehan teeters under the weight, quickly pulling him to the kerb. He sits Grantaire down on the pavement, allows him to choke hoarsely against his shoulder until he falls silent.

Jehan sighs, strokes the boy’s hair; wishes he had a fucking cigarette.

 

 

Grantaire sits next to the open window, the air too damp to smoke outside. He watches the smoke rise absently, and taps the ashes on the ledge, wondering how long it will take them before they learn to dance upon the chilly draught. Through the foggy glass, he sees Jehan waltzing in double time; boots sinking into the mud, jumpers and braids sticking to his skinny frame as he spins. His arms, raised to the heavens, seem to jut out at awkward angles, as if he is barely human at all – yet despite the spectacle, there is nothing quite so incongruous to his settings as the expression on his face. Jehan looks alive, and proudly so; throat bared to the sky, mouth open wide, catching drops on his tongue and lips – until he notices that he is not alone, that he has an unwitting spectator. He pauses, furrows his brow, and stumbles forward in the rain towards the window, knocks on it three times.

Grantaire knows this is an invitation to join in; knows, but does not comprehend – despite months of kissing and spontaneity and words whispered against bruises, he still does not see himself as a worthy dance partner.

As with all things, he is left with a choice. Belief is more than a choice.

 

 

The apartment, Thursday morning. The storm has not yet passed, grey clouds moving lethargically to the east. It’s winter, after all, Grantaire says, and wonders why Jehan expects anything less.

Today, there is a splash of colour.

‘Open your eyes.’

Jehan recoils from his curled position on the threadbare sofa, and raises his eyebrows, intrigued; asks ‘What is it?’

Grantaire produces a garishly-coloured flower from behind his back, holds it in front of him almost sheepishly, a sharp expression on his face daring Jehan to say something, anything.

Still, Jehan does not rise; knows better than to draw attention to this uncharacteristic remorse. Instead he smiles gratefully, waves his hand in encouragement for Grantaire to continue.

‘It’s a _zinnia violacea_ –’ Grantaire begins, picking at one of the loose petals absently, ‘- which, as translated from the original Latin, reads as _‘you held my hair back and all you get to show for it is this wilting plant from Home and Garden.’_ ’

Jehan’s eyes widen very slightly.

‘You bought me a flower,’ he says, no inquiring inflection. This is a certainty, and as a brightly content tinge rises to his cheeks, Grantaire sees just how touched he is, and grins smugly in satisfaction.

‘It certainly appears so,’ he replies.

Jehan stands up, takes the pot from Grantaire’s hands, and shifts it in his own, measuring its weight as a peace offering between his now soiled fingers. There is a silence.

‘You can’t just buy me flowers every time you fuck up, you know,’ Jehan says, his cheeks pink, his lips curling upwards triumphantly. ‘There isn’t enough room on the windowsill.’

Grantaire gasps in mock offence, pushes Jehan’s laughing face away as he leans in to kiss Grantaire’s stubbled cheek.

‘Ingrate!’ Grantaire shouts playfully. ‘Fuck you! That’s the last time I do anything nice.’

 

 

‘Try again!’ Jehan crows raucously as he is pushed out of yet another doorway, twig-like shoulders resisting to the best of their admittedly limited ability. Grantaire follows suit; spits whiskey from his mouth, and gives the bouncer the finger before grabbing Jehan by the wrist, running away with him down the alleyway. Grantaire knows the shadows as well as he knows the rhythm of Jehan’s ribs and vertebrae, and smiles as they kiss, catching the other’s breath as the two of them embrace in a place one of them, at least, knows as home.

 

 

Jehan is standing on the edge of the apartment building, arms outstretched, the slightest imbalance in the wind threatening to tip him over at any given moment. He appears to be screaming, or praying – with Jehan, the difference between the two is imperceptible – and Grantaire falls over himself to seize Jehan by the waist, drag the slender laughing boy back to solid ground. He laughs in Grantaire’s arms, simply laughs and laughs again, his eyes closed in a heady bliss, a rush as fast-moving as the frantic rise and fall of his chest. Grantaire catches his breath alongside the boy writhing in his arms, and nurses soft kisses into his hair; does not stop even after the laughing has turned to shaking and prayers have turned to tears.

Grantaire swallows; thinks it an isolated incident, at the time.

 

 

Saturday evening, at sunset. For once, colour fills the sky, red streaks to match the bloody welts under Jehan’s eye.

Grantaire traces them lightly with one hand, the other linked tightly in Jehan’s vice-tight grip. They sit on the rooftop of their apartment building, legs dangling precariously over the edge, half-broken canvas shoes serving as the only buffer between infinity and bare skin. They say nothing, learning to communicate only through images and sunsets, through pictures without sound. It is simpler this way – as words can barely begin to string together the tremor in Grantaire’s fingers after a day without smoking, or the way Jehan’s eyes regard the palms of his own hands as something foreign. They are not foolish enough to try.

 

 

It is raining, again.

Jehan is outside, perfecting his usual, frenetic twirl; welcomes the rush of water on his glass skin. He pauses, looks at the figure hovering in the doorway, and smiles expectantly, reaching his hand forward. _Are you coming?_ Jehan mouths through the storm, and Grantaire is unsure how to answer.

Belief is a choice.

There is no light, no moment of clarity to indicate that this is a progression in any way. Then again, to expect glory, to expect transformation or belief, would be uncharacteristic in itself. Grantaire has never held belief in his arsenal – wit, apathy and pessimism, most certainly – but never belief. Perhaps, for now, it can wait. Grantaire wills no prophet, no spirit to his side, for he has a boy already waiting for him, a smiling boy drenched in dirty rain with enough faith to move mountains. It is far from a conclusion, Grantaire thinks as he pulls the door closed behind him, and it is far from beautiful, but perhaps, for now, it counts.

Perhaps, for now, belief is not a pre-requisite for contentment.

Grantaire steps into the rain gingerly, palms facing upward, and waits to be cleansed.

**Author's Note:**

> big smooches to beesalie (tumblr user milenajesenskas) for word-warring with me & being my beta reader and perpetual cheerleader, you're the best
> 
> the poem grantaire quotes whilst drunk is the third verse (entitled 'les amis', haha!) of arthur rimbaud's 'comédie de la soif' (comedy of thirst) which is just The Most Grantaire Thing Ever, really, and the flower i chose (well, beesalie did, my flower game is embarassingly weak), the zinnia, can be said to have meanings such as 'lasting affection', y'know, if you want to twist that knife a little more
> 
> also i promise that one day i'll write something that isn't in a ~vague setting~ in ~cute little vignettes~, but i just don't know if i'm emotionally ready to commit to something like that right now


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